


HD Honey'd Quill, Phoenix Feather

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Kink, Feathers & Featherplay, Food Kink, Healing Magic, Hogwarts Era, M/M, Minor bondage references, Ribbons, Teenage lovers exploring new fun things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 07:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14420388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Written for serpentinelion Smut Fest ages ago but really just an excuse for the Author to play with ribbons, honey and feathers.





	HD Honey'd Quill, Phoenix Feather

“Your Wizarding education is sadly lacking, Potter,” Malfoy drawled and as always, these days, when he looked upon the boy he’d shared the majority of the last near-decade of tumultuous days with, he smiled. Then he looked back to his quill, which was a very peculiar one, admittedly. “I’ve always suspected as much.”

Harry Potter had experience with quills. There were the ones he used every day for lectures and essays, notes and jotting, which were cheap and plentiful and tasted of nothing so much other than pasteboard. There had been Umbridge’s quill, a device he would not forget in this lifetime, and a suitable reminder of what he could manage, if merely he gritted his teeth and kept at it. There were sugar quills, the ones purchased at Honeyduke’s and in Diagon Alley’s sweets shop, a treat Muggle schoolchildren would never likely experience. Harry found the last too saccharine, the first boring in the extreme but comforting as well, and the middle example gut-roiling. But Malfoy’s was not a brand of quill he’d ever been acquainted with, this sweeping white feather dangling from between Malfoy’s elegantly arched fingers, dripping…something.

“I shall be delighted to school you, though, since you seem to require it,” Malfoy murmured and bent his long-limbed person over Harry’s reposing form, nib at the ready. Harry noticed instantly that the ‘something’ it drizzled was a clear golden hue and viscous. Drops fell from it slowly, as if gravity itself was hampered, and when they splattered on his skin, they were warm, nearly steaming.

“And since I have  _do_ happen tohaveyou to my advantage…” Malfoy’s low voice trailed off, but Harry caught the flash of a wide, white grin slashing across his wan cheeks. "Well." 

He shifted uncomfortably, and hoped like hell there were no other students or professors with insomnia up and about in Hogwarts this fine January dawn. The door was locked and warded, as was the spiral staircase below it, but still—things did tend to go haywire quickly, at least in his experience. And it would only take Headmistress McGonagall all of thirty seconds to unbar the door.

 “What is that?” he asked, his eyes lingering on Malfoy’s lowered lids. They were parchment-thin and pale like the rest of him, and his eyes below were shadowed bluish-purple. Morning came late in mid-winter, and dusk earlier, and neither of them ever slept well. “It looks…strange.”

“Honey, Potter,” Malfoy whispered, and kept his gaze steady on the thin stream the droplets had become, slowly leaking. “The finest grade of orange-blossom, from Seville. Only the best for you, my Chosen One.”

“If it’s honey, then it’s sticky, isn’t it? Do watch out for my school robes, Malfoy! And don’t be an utter prat if you can help it,” Harry snapped, “though I’m sure you can’t. I don’t like being called that.”

He wriggled in a gust of temper and shifted his wrists and ankles abruptly, testing the green-and-silver silk damask ribbons Malfoy had draped him with when he so willingly—trustingly—clambered up onto this study table. They didn’t budge an inch. “And I don’t much appreciate  _these_ , either,” he added sharply, turning his wrists upwards and flexing his fingers to gain Malfoy’s notice. “I’m not much into bondage, Malfoy.”

Malfoy did chuckle at that. “I know—don’t fuss, Potter. Those won’t hurt you; they’re nothing more than leftover Christmas ribbon.”

“I still don’t like them,” Harry muttered sulkily, still squirming.

Malfoy laughed outright, this time, twisting his hand in widening circles, so that the Spanish honey spiraled onto Harry’s belly, pooling in his naval. “Give it up, Potter. You’re well and truly stuck there. But remember—I’ve in mind to make you feel good, not punish you.”

“The things I do for you, Malfoy,” Harry sighed dramatically, and thumped his uncombed head back onto the table, resigned to his fate. “Well? If that’s so, then get on with it!”

Draco finally shifted his intense gaze from the spun-gold molecule-wide rivulet to confront Harry’s impatient glare. “We’ve time enough,” he returned, equably. “It’s still early. Plus, you know you love it when I do things like this, Potter. Whom else would you even trust, anyway? Longbottom? Weasley? They’re both taken, and we both know as well there’s no one else here at Hogwarts with a decent enough imagination and of age to exercise it, so do--please!--shut your flapping trap and let me.”

“Fine, fine—and  _no,_ of course not, you nit! There’s no one else; I admit that, alright? But that doesn’t mean you need to dish out abuse upon me, either,” Harry grumped. “And I’ve no intention of missing breakfast this morning, so, please—if  _you_  would—get on with it. Make me come.“

“As if I’d ever harm you, Potter,” Malfoy’s peculiar smile—the same one that had cycled from a faint, charmed curl of the lips when watching the honey drip, to a hint of his old, obnoxious sneer when Harry protested, and then moved to much briefer moment of true humour—modulated gently into a rueful curve of thin lips. “As if. You’ll not be late, either—I swear. Now, do be quiet and close your eyes; I’m about to begin.”

“Right, then,” Harry huffed, “Sure. Tally-ho, Malfoy. Damn the torpedoes.”

“…What?” Malfoy opened his mouth and then just as quickly shook his head. “No, never mind; I don’t want to know, Potter.”

But still, Harry did shut his eyes obligingly, relaxing into the ribbons that curled lazily across his joints. They were soothing, now that he was no longer bothering to fight them. The cross-grain of the silver-shot silk green weave rubbed itself against tendons too tight with the aftermath of nightmares and caressed muscles overly sore from last night’s late Quidditch practice.

Harry took a long breath through his nose and let it exhale through his mouth, exactly as Malfoy had directed him on numerous previous occasions. He did it a few more times; it felt good.

 _He_  felt good: the honey was warm where it lay; the ribbons curled like hot, flat snakes across his joints; it was quiet and peaceful. Secure.

The Astronomy tower boasted of several floors, conveniently. The topmost was of course the observatory, used by Professor Sinistra’s classes on a regular basis. Below that was her lecture room, abounding with brass and silver-wrought examples of the opthaumagician’s art. ‘Astronomy is like scrying the skies,’ she’d said one day in passing and Harry had noted that phrase, and even written it down, as it struck him as very apt. He’d spent so much time in Seventh Year staring upwards, looking for Morsmordre, searching out Venus, navigating by the Pole Star on his weary way through Britain’s wild places, he’d come to regard the sky as a very familiar map.

A friend, when it wasn’t raining down fiery death or Dementors.

On a floor below the classroom level was the Astronomy common room: a half-library, half-study area, and quite subject-specific. Dust motes twinkled in the air even after the elves whirled through, cleaning, for the tomes on ‘far-lookers’ stored there were very old, most of them, and there were tapestries of the various constellations on every wall that wasn’t pierced with arrow-slit windows. Freestanding glass-fronted bookcases and study carrels took up the remainder of the floor space and it was here that he met with Malfoy on a regular basis and here, as well, that they’d forged this particular symbiotic bond between them.

Harry wondered often if it would’ve been different had they’d come to terms in the Quidditch hut or the greenhouses, the Owlry or Madame Pince’s domain. But it was the Astronomy Tower by sheer blind luck, and it was Malfoy because it had to be—neither had a choice in that, did they?—and he lay silent and not fighting the silky ribbons because he truly did trust.

The honed nib of the quill touched down his skin, at last, and it was neither sharp nor painful, despite appearances. Draco flourished his boney wrist with a flap of his robes and began slowly inscribing some arcane phrase across Harry’s bared chest. Harry jerked; the viscous liquid heated several more degrees as it flowed down his ribs, and the very act of calligraphy sent a shocking thrill up his spine.

“Ah! Tickles!” he protested, and jerked again, his arse grinding into the wooden surface below him. Malfoy leant over him quickly and cut off Harry’s involuntary snort with firm lips, snogging him deep and fast.

“Belt up, Potter—I’m being careful. Just let go, will you?” Malfoy’s features glared just as usual under his fringe, but his grey eyes were as sinkhole hot and sweet as his chosen ‘ink’.

“Mmmm,” Harry capitulated, mollified, and let recede the tension that was such an integral part of him.

The unusual quill moved on and on, down to the planes and indents of his abdomen; upwards to circle his raised nipples—he thought Malfoy might very well be using them as punctuation marks—and across his breastbone. It quickened as it went, flirting with the paler skin of his shoulders and his throat, and faintly Harry could feel Malfoy’s lips drifting on his sensitized skin, following after.

He’d not a clue as what Malfoy was writing; what words were sinking into him with every blot of pale golden ink and shading upsweep of softened nib-edge. It could be Dark Magic, or a ritual of the diminishing Solstice; it might be one of the ancient healing charms Malfoy excelled in (he was Madame Pomfrey’s protégé now, with Snape gone, and a vastly surprised Harry had wagered with an equally shocked Ron he’d never met such a born Healer, by Merlin! But…no surprise, really, when Harry recalled his old Potions Professor’s careful care for Malfoy. Voldemort had been cruel; Snape had had to heal himself somehow, Harry assumed. It all added up, in the end.)

It could be, too—and likely was, the sneaky, sly bastard—Sex Magic Malfoy was spelling, for the ribbons that draped his partially undressed form were tightening slowly but surely as Harry instinctively raised his back and hips off the table, valiantly trying to get more of his skin in contact with the nib of that seductive quill.

It could very well be.

“Shhhh,” Malfoy whispered, "Potter," and dotted fragile kisses across his sternum. Harry moaned.

His cock was bobbing still from where Draco’s hand had so reluctantly released it earlier, shoving his trousers down roughly to his knees after he’d parted Harry’s robes and button-down. All that was soft about Harry—his stomach and thighs, the hollow of his throat and his diaphragm, his armpits and the creases and folds where his balls hung ripe and heavy—was exposed to that scrolling, relentless quill nib—and to Draco’s long-fingered free hand and his saliva-laden mouth, tracking relentlessly after.

Harry moaned again, feverishly rolling his head against the table. His hips felt as though they were seizing, so urgently had he suspended them, hoping that Malfoy’s hand would take pity and return. The lovely relaxation that had flowed from Malfoy’s magical pen had vanished altogether when his wicked lips came into play. Harry’s nostrils were tide-full of steamy orange groves and heavy, syrupy summer sunshine; his closed eyelids played visions of red tiled rooftops and drowsy villages. But he thrummed with unquenched desire, all the same.

This simply  _had_  to be Sex Magic and damn that berk Malfoy to Hades and back for using it on him, all unawares, Harry railed. Just like the prick, though, to do it this way. Malfoy seldom showed any pity for Harry’s rather understandable naiveté when it came to myriad minutiae of the Wizarding way of life. He was far more likely to tease and taunt him then to bother himself with explaining and too often seemed genuinely delighted whenever Harry buggered up some minor cultural reference.

Last Thursday, for example, Harry had innocently asked Hermione when the wedding would be and if they’d have a minister. Ron had stared at him, aghast, and then begun howling his head off uproariously, not noticing at all when Harry’s face got redder and redder and Hermione bit her lip in embarrassment.

“Not ‘marriage’, mate!” Ron had guffawed. “Bonding!  _Wizards_  are Bonded; we’re not bloody Muggles, Harry! We don’t do things  _their_ way!”

That was when Harry remembered abruptly Ron was as Pureblood as they come. Just like Malfoy.

“Potter,” Malfoy had said after, very early that following Friday morning, his horrid sneer marring his handsome face (or perhaps it enhanced it: Harry didn’t know for sure which it was anymore), “you desperately need someone to mind you—all you Half-bloods do. Granger has her pet Weasley; where’s yours?”

Harry hadn’t replied, nor even attempted. It was none of Malfoy’s business, what happened with Ginny, and besides, he was in the midst of being fucked quite rigorously right on this very table, his arse levered up high under Malfoy’s slippery grip, teeth tight-shut on his robe edge to keep from shouting. No time to explain much of anything.

But that same prat Malfoy had stuffed a comprehensive text on Wizarding etiquette into his book bag later; Harry knew it was him and not Hermione, ‘cause he’d asked her, straight out. Yes—Harry trusted. More and more each day. 

“What—what are you writing, Malfoy?” he gasped. It was hard to gather enough focus to speak, much less intelligibly. Malfoy was moving the flattened nib faster—faster—inscribing spirals and curlicues of script as he rolled it across muscle, and his free hand had finally gripped Harry’s cock fast and was pumping, a slow dark rhythmic roll-and-twist, knuckles flexing and bobbing: a Djembe drum beat that hardwired his heart. Harry’s hips matched it, up and back, and the blood sloshed through his veins in its hurry to get to the party. “What  _is_ this? M-Malfoy!”

Malfoy gave one last lick to Harry’s left nipple and lifted the quill from the exact centre of his right. Harry blinked, peering downward at his torso, his throbbing groin, his cock, now melded into the sticky cushiony flesh of Malfoy’s relentless palm.

“A spell,” Draco swallowed, licking his lips. They were smeared with orange-flavoured honey and Harry was gagging to taste them. “Just a spell. For the cessation of nightmares. To help you sleep, Potter. Now, please-- _relax_ ,” he ordered. “No—cancel that. Don’t relax.”

Netting—golden netting; that’s all Harry could see. A fisherman’s tool: the part of his body not still cloaked in constricting clothes was covered with a golden-bright web. A pure white sweep of down gone blood-red, honey never-ending from its wicked point.

Malfoy dropped the pen carelessly on Harry’s heaving chest and shucked his robes and trousers in nearly one single slick motion. He’d no drawers on to disguise his cock, which was just as hard as Harry’s and blazing scarlet at the tip. It sprang forward on a hair-trigger and Harry gulped back a cry of primordial need. The heavy quill was taken up again and Malfoy scribbled upon his fingertips and then his palm, and then licked them both for good measure. Harry’s dick throbbed, painfully.

Malfoy was up on the table, straddling Harry, in seconds. The ribbons clamped down tight and fast at Harry’s bared wrists and ankles, drawing them wider apart.

“Malfoy!” He thrust up against them, waiting breathlessly, but Malfoy didn’t do the expected, ever. Instead, he breathed a silent request over his amazing writing instrument and fixed Harry with a gaze that pierced through.

“You want it?” It was every bit of the challenge the old Malfoy would’ve mustered--once, a bloody lifetime ago; Harry’s pulse, already accelerated, went wild.

“Fuck, yes, Malfoy!”

But Malfoy teased him, the twat: feathery brushes of the quill’s brilliantly hued shaft drawn down his own to taunt it; encircling fingers at the base pinching off his burgeoning semen at the nub. Softer—then harder; again, again, till the whole world focused only on Harry’s tortured dick and he closed his eyes in blind submission, willing Malfoy to roger him stupid already—shag him senseless and rubbery-light.

No such thing. The nib—that sharp-seeming point—was pressed into Harry's cock-slit, sure and steady. Malfoy licked his lips again and watched it with all the detached air of a bloody Muggle scientist.

Or a Healer.

“Merlin— _fuck_ , Malfoy!”

Harry screamed, throwing his entire body off the table. The golden netting dragged at him, hindering him as he attempted to get at the bloody fucker who tormented him, and all the air smelt of a heady mix of orange pulp and honeycomb. Green ribbons slithered, dancing up his arms, his shins; hot, leaden and never leaving a mark.

Harry hissed plaintively at them in Parseltongue, begging, but they showed no pity.

“Are you  _ready_ , Potter!?” Malfoy asked, and this time it was his voice trembling. He was blinking continuously; sweat visibly beading on his brow and slicking down his lint-white hair, trickling ever so slowly down his sculpted jaw and throat. Harry would have loved to see Malfoy suffer, but he’d his own eyes closed and his jaw clenched and could only barely summon a nod, in the end.

Malfoy sat down upon him, whisking the quill away at the very last moment and deftly substituting his flinching spit-and-honeyed anus, and then he exerted rope-taut pressure from his blue-veined thighs and fucking  _sat_. It was all Harry could do not to ejaculate instantly when Malfoy plummeted down his cock, hissing like a train whistle through his nose.

“Fucking-bloody-great-huge- ** _GIT_** , Potter!” Malfoy bitched, panting. His face was all kinds of odd, but weirdly pretty, all the same. Harry slit his bleary eyes the veriest crack just to watch it floating above him.

“Oh-god-oh-god-ohmygod-Malfoy-Malf- _Draco_! Move, goddamnit!  _Move_!” Harry ordered him on the next hard-won breath, his eyes now at their widest, shock-rounded by a frigging rush of anticipation such as he’d never felt before, not even when he’d gotten his Nimbus—how could he  _not_  watch this? This was— _Draco_  was abso-bloody _fucking_ -lutely brilliant! 

But he’d not much grasp left on the thinner edges of his ragged sanity, Harry: Malfoy—Draco—his arsehole was contracting ‘round Harry’s prick, and Harry bit his tongue nearly though, buying time, seeking to hold off just one more moment. If he dared move—if he dared!

One stroke—maybe two; that was all he’d get out of this best shag ever,  _if_ he was a lucky bastard.

“No! One more thing—wait! Wait, Potter,” Malfoy’s voice was a whip-crack, stopping Harry mid-lunge of hips. He opened his sticky mouth—so red and ripe and gods! how Harry wanted it—and then Malfoy stuck out his pink and slippery tongue at Harry, wagging it rudely. One unexpected swipe of the quill’s razored nib and it was coated in Gryffindor red, blood welling from a slash right down the centre.

Harry’s jaw smacked his collarbone.

“Put your tongue out,” Malfoy mumbled, through folded lips that but barely held back the drenching flow. Harry did exactly that, without a second thought.

Trust was a funny old thing. Malfoy stabbed him with that scalpel-sharp quill of his and Harry, too, tasted blood—and citrus rind, and sweet, sweet honey.

“Kiss me, Potter. Please.”

Green and grey; silver, gilt and vermillion—Harry smelt them all; felt the serpentine wisps of ribbon caressing one last time, and then releasing their bonds with a sibilant whisper. There was a golden net that swirled about him, cast from the sky above, and high, high up, above even that, were the sounds of unearthly birds singing. Trilling sweetly, in an ever-falling crescendo.

Or was that bees in an orchard, droning? Or mayhap Draco, panting harshly through his nostrils, his fingers clawing up Harry’s shoulders to grip Harry’s jaw and hold it steady?

Their lips met head-on with an audible clang of incisors, twisted sideways immediately to allow for poking noses, sealing out the world and all the stars above. Harry moved; Draco jerked atop him: once, twice, thrice the magic number.

Honey, blood and scarlet feather. Viridian ribbons, dancing up like phoenix flames. Harry came with a subterranean grunt that rocked all of him, even as his molecules shimmered like stardust. Draco followed, falling sodden atop Harry, rolling sideways into a heaving slump, and the honey’d quill burst into an eye-searing, sudden supernova.

And Vanished. 

* * *

 

“Meh, Malfoy, what the fuck?”

“It was a spell; I told you, git,” Draco muttered sullenly. He shifted on the hard wood of the study table and Harry stuck an arm around him, rolling to his side so he could shut Malfoy’s tight-pursed mouth with a snog. “It’ll help you sleep,” the Slytherin continued blandly, when Harry finally let him.

“Yeah?”  Harry was skeptical, naturally.

‘Yes, Potter. As I’ve said, only the best—“

Harry rolled his eyes and joined in the all-too-familiar chant “...for our Saviour—yes, yes, I know, I  _know_ , Malfoy. Do shut up about that shite already. You’re driving me barmy.”

“Tempus,” Malfoy turned over again, lying on his back and drowsily feeling about for his wand, but that was in his trousers pocket, in a heap upon the floor. “Shite! Potter, what’s the time?”

“Seven,” Harry answered. "Yes, seven." He blinked at the vaulted, constellation-studded ceiling at few times, and realized he wasn’t at all sticky, or bloody, nor was he in his usual state of insomniac exhaustion. In fact, he felt rather amazingly spry and well-rested. “We should get up,” he allowed. “We’ll be late to table.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Malfoy didn’t seem so wrought up about that as he was, but then Harry was hungry. He’d missed supper Sunday night. He nudged Malfoy’s shoulder perhaps a little harder than necessary, moving events along.

“Come on, old prat; rouse yourself. We’ve got classes; it’s Monday again, sod it.”

They scrambled for clothing, robes and book bags, checking to ensure wands were where they should be and nothing was displaced in the Astronomy common room. A scent of Spanish oranges hung lightly in the dusty shafts of brilliant mid-winter sun; a wave of Malfoy’s wand dispelled it.

“Er, thanks,” Harry said, red-faced, when they were at the door, checking up one last time on their tiny kingdom. “Draco.”  He brushed up against the git at both shoulder and hip to ensure his companion knew he'd meant that. Malfoy turned his chin sharply, ostensibly checking his bag strap to ensure it wasn't mussing his robe collar.

“S’no problem,” he mumbled, after a small pause. “…Harry.”

Malfoy pulled the door firmly shut behind them, locked it with another wave of his wand, and kept his face averted whilst they clattered quickly down the narrow flights of spiral stairs, feet muffled by Harry’s whispered Quietus.  

One last door stood between them and the rest of a usual Monday morning Hogwarts; Harry could hear the bustle of young bodies even through foot-thick ironbound oak. On impulse, he stopped on the step above Malfoy and stuck his hand out at the very last moment, snagging Malfoy’s elbow.

“Hey!”

“Yes?”

Malfoy still wasn’t deigning to look directly at him. Harry wondered vaguely if he’d said something he shouldn’t have, but there was nothing; not that he could remember, at least. Besides, the silly nit was blushing—so was he, for that matter. They likely both looked very well-shagged, too. No spells to get rid of that! 

“Same time tomorrow?”

That got the stubborn arse spinning on his heel to face Harry—finally. They were eye-to-eye for once, due to Harry’s perch on his step. He watched carefully as Malfoy lifted one arrogant eyebrow and tightened his reddened, swollen lips, preparatory to saying something totally cutting, likely.

“But, Potter, you’ll be having a proper lie-in tomorrow morning,” Malfoy never quite did do what Harry expected of him, these days. Right now, for instance, he was smiling—a real face-splitter, with crinkles of good humour ‘round his weary lake-deep eyes and a gurgle of  pleased laughter welling up in his overly bland voice. “Trust me, I know this; I’ve just bloody guaranteed it.”

Such a face required snogging--demanded it. Lengthy snogging, with bags sliding away unnoticed and small murmurs of mutual contentment, a great amount of sloppy tongue action and Harry ending up plastered against the cramped exit alcove’s masonry, with Draco plastered to  _him_.

“Don’t know what you did—“ Harry muttered a while later, in between kisses, for they were each consciously trying to wind things down for the moment. Eighth Years serving detentions for skiving NEWT’s-level lectures didn’t sit well with future employers, whether those same students were the ones responsible for saving the world or no.

“Told you already, Potter,“ Draco started, patiently. “It’s a spell to—“

“Don’t care,”  Harry spoke over him, doggedly. “Either. Trust you. Told  _you_ that, Draco—“

“Harry.”  Merlin! Harry hadn’t known till just now Malfoy’s voice could go that deep—or that velvety-soft. He shivered.

“So—erm.” He hid his hot face in Draco’s neck, refusing to look. He was absolute pants at dating and he knew it—but nothing ventured, nothing gained, yeah?  “Um. How ‘bout we meet up after dinner's over, then…Draco? I’ve a permanent pass to the Restricted Section in my bag. We could, uh…study.”

Harry could actually hear Malfoy’s wicked, wicked grin crackling right through his untidy hair, a warm, enveloping breeze to buoy him up for the remainder of his boring Monday.

“Deal, Harry. Oh, yes--you’ve got yourself a definite deal.”


End file.
